


Nameless

by superagentwolf



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Book/Movie Fusion, M/M, Major Original Character(s), Minor Original Character(s), Nameless by Lili St. Crow, Past Abuse, Snow White Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-01
Updated: 2017-03-01
Packaged: 2018-09-27 18:31:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10038620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superagentwolf/pseuds/superagentwolf
Summary: He was carried to Picquery's car one burning afternoon. The story, as they tell it, is that he was found almost wasted away and catatonic. The President of MACUSA takes him in and- well, from there, the story unfolds.





	

He’s heard the story told a hundred times.

A hot day, heat blazing off the pavement, and the sound of crows in the distance, cawing. He can still hear their harsh cries sometimes, in his sleep. It makes him shiver.

The low black car, shiny and trimmed with silver, sped across the road. It was an anomaly- cars were new, barely available to the rich and powerful. It was a statement; like everything the President did. Ianto was driving, the chauffer and advisor dressed as usual in a dark suit and green tie. A little less energetic in the heat, so different from his home in Wales.

They had hurtled along, headed for the mansion on the hill, when something had stumbled out of the darkness.

Ianto had stopped easily, magic and the mechanics of the car crackling quietly as he pulled up before the figure.

“Look,” Picquery had commanded, almost sedate, as if she knew the thing was of no danger to her.

The man in the passenger seat nodded and stepped out. Bertrand, thin and tall, deceptively delicate. Much of the public knew nothing of him, if they knew he existed at all. He was the spy in the shadows.

The street was hot when Bertrand walked out, watching, ignoring the sparks his charmed shoes kicked up. His wand was ready.

_You should have been dead,_ Bertrand says at this point in the story. Soft. _But our boy is a fighter._

Bertrand had found him, a boy, barely fifteen or so but small for his age. Thin and wasted from neglect. There had been white scars on his wrists, spidery, and it had made the man angry. Spell marks. The Maj didn’t like spell marks- especially ones that told of captivity. Binding.

Bertrand turned, moving back to the car, dark head heated in the burning sun.

“A boy,” he said, leaning close to the cracked window. “probably a no-maj.”

Picquery had waited then, head tilting, and Bertrand had done something different.

When asked, he would shrug, wordless. It is something the man cannot explain.

“…he’s in bad shape,” Bertrand had added, hesitant, not for fear but something else. “Scarred.”

Picquery’s eyes, lined and catlike, slid back to him.

Her mind, while easy to follow on the surface, was mazelike. She did things for the greater good, but in the end she was still human. She had other reasons besides logic. Whatever she was thinking, though, no one could guess. No one can tell, still.

“Bring him,” she said, quiet, and Bertrand nodded.

He had picked the boy up, careful, and a small noise told him there was life still in the broken body. The car door opened for him, sparking magic, and he slid in beside Picquery. Ianto glanced in the mirror, waiting, and the look in the President’s eyes told him to continue.

They sped through industrial parks, heat waving images over the pavement, through streets empty of the no-maj confined in their factory jobs for the remainder of the simmering day.

When they arrived at the hill, Robert greeted them, a blanket ready in his arms, Queenie fussing by his side. The woman had taken him in, bathed his wasted body, set him up in a room. At one point Bellbow was posted outside his room, watchful, guarding against a threat that logically could not enter the fortress that was the mansion.

And so he’d arrived in the arms of Picquery, President of MACUSA, and he had been adopted shortly after- paperwork flying in on charmed paper, ready to be signed and official. The mansion on the hill, not quite a house and not quite an office, had gained another resident.

It wasn’t Picquery who had named him, though.

* * *

Predictably, Picquery had waited.

She was cautious and she knew the dangers of inviting a strange boy into the House. She kept Bellbow at the door, prepared, and Tina followed Queenie in when her sister went to check on the healing process.

Magic could only do so much.

It was three days before the boy in the bed gained consciousness, eyes still shadowed with some unknown pain. Picquery had spoken to him- he doesn’t remember the conversation- and she had learned little.

_No family,_ she’d murmured to Ianto. _No name. Check the city._

They had checked already, but she wanted to be sure.

In the meantime, the boy was allowed out of bed. He wandered the halls like a ghost, quiet and easily scared off. For the most part, the staff were directed to let him be. _Let him settle,_ Picquery had said, _let him feel safe. This will be his home._

* * *

The fifth day after the boy had woken, there was still no trace of who he was or where he came from.

_Probably a stray,_ Bellbow had said. _Doesn’t seem to be feral, though. Kidnapped?_

The telltale scars had been enough to make Picquery feel secure. _Kidnapped,_ she had agreed, the word a sigh. _There are too many of them, now._

The boy had been in a library, fingers tracing wooden shelves, and then things had changed.

Graves was home.

He’d been away, doing something for the President. He had returned home to find the magic of the House changed, a new voice added to the song, something tenuous and uncertain. The man had debriefed quickly, passing on his words to a low-level worker, and then he had set off through the house.

Picquery knew he was home.

She waited.

Graves was the best to identify dark magic. He had seen much in his service to MACUSA. She knew that he, of anyone, would be able to find any hidden traps. So she sat in her office, patient, and waited for them to find each other.

* * *

The boy was still in the library, gazing at a griffin emblazoned on a leather book, and footsteps echoed in the doorway. At this point, he was comfortable, used to the others moving around him as if he were a desk. An object.

“Who are you?”

The question shocks him, the attention burning his skin, and he turns to face the intruder, shaking.

It is a man- unidentifiable in age, likely older than twenty but relatively youthful. His hair is black, dark eyes like onyx stones. He is intimidating, not because he is particularly large or strong, but because there is an air of something about him. He has walked the world.

The boy opens his mouth, making a frightened noise, and the man steps closer.

“What are you? What do you want?”

The question still come and the boy thinks he can hear another voice, smiling, questioning. Pain when he doesn’t answer right. He shrinks against the bookcase, heart beating rapidly, palms sweaty. He can feel the familiar shift under his skin.

“P-please don’t…hurt me…,” he manages, chest heaving, and even as he speaks he expects the pain to come.

It always comes, because he never has the right answer. The right words.

Instead, the man stops, something in his dark eyes changing. His mouth hangs open, silent, and he slowly lowers his body to the floor. He is on his knees, careful, and the boy is confused. Scared.

The shadow in his mind had always been above him. He _feels_ , somehow, that the power is always taller than him. Above.

He watches the man, now barely reaching his shoulder, and he is not sure what to think.

“I won’t hurt you,” the man says softly, and it is sincere.

It is so sincere the boy wants to cry. He feels the tears burning and tries to will them away. Crying only makes the punishment worse.

“Okay?” the man asks, hands reaching carefully, and the boy twitches.

The man pauses, watching, and the boy is in awe of his own power. _He stopped for me,_ he thinks, and he blinks, looking at the hands. Working hands, a little callused. But he thinks they are warm- they must be- and so he sways a little, wanting to feel.

He has never really felt before. He wonders if it would be nice. The hands look nice.

“I won’t hurt you,” the man repeats, moving again, and this time the boy lets him, shuddering a gasp when the hands curl around his arms.

_They are warm,_ he thinks, feeling even through his pale shirt, and the man shifts, pulling him closer.

He smells of pine and honey and something else. He smells like warmth.

Somehow the intimidating figure from before has changed and now all the boy sees is the softness of the man’s black coat, the acceptance of his arms as they hold him close.

“I don’t want to hurt anyone,” the boy says through tears, not quite understanding why.

He cannot remember before- before the car. The House.

Maybe it is a small mercy.

“I believe you,” the man says softly, and his arms are tighter, not painful but somehow more fitting.

Like they were meant to hold him.

The boy doesn’t want to let go so the man- _Graves,_ he tells the boy, soft and quiet, _Percival Graves_ \- carries him to a window seat and lets him curl into his side. They stay there for what seems like an age and the boy is almost asleep, dazed, head filled with pine and warmth.

Picquery comes in, quiet, and her voice floats in the boy’s ears, warped by sleep.

“Well?”

Graves’ hand strokes his hair a little and the boy moves closer, eyes closed as he listens. When Graves speaks he feels the rumble of the man’s chest and it makes him pleased.

“Credence,” Graves says, quiet. “Call him Credence.”

* * *

_“Come, boy. I know what you are capable of. Are you mine?”_

_He makes a noise in the back of his throat, desperate. He pulls against the arms holding him, moaning, unable to look away. He is afraid._

_Despite what he knows- despite the fact that it will make him mad- he shakes his head violently, struggling._

_The face darkens, angry. It leans down, white-blond hair immaculate even as it moves._

_“You are nothing. Squib,” it says, pleased when the boy cries. “I will break you.”_

_It is a promise._

* * *

Credence wakes, breathing heavily, sweaty in the night.

The room is quiet, save for the soft ticking of the clock. He kicks the sheets away, mouth dry, and tries to steady his shaking hands.

_School tomorrow,_ he thinks, biting his lip.

He is sixteen, only a year older than when he’d been found in the road, but it feels like he’s been at the House forever.

They’re nice to him. Queenie and Andie bake him apple pies, laughing and throwing flour at each other, and Credence likes to watch them. Bellbow is always around, somehow, and he grins when he sees the boy, _put ‘em up, let’s see how strong you are_ , teasing. Ianto is always there when he needs a break, driving him when necessary and even when it’s not- sometimes Credence likes to go to the park and Ianto is always willing, making sure to stop a few blocks away, understanding.

Bertrand and Robert are arguably some of his favorite people in the whole House. He’s not quite sure why- Bertrand is, for the most part, quiet. He is unobtrusive, never really requiring anything, which is probably why Credence is comfortable around him. Robert is completely different. He is always smiling, shining somehow, as if there is a candle within him, lighting him with a soft glow. He always seems able to draw Credence out with a word or a smile, gentle but guiding. He is usually there in the morning, able to tell if he’s had a nightmare, holding a cup of cocoa with a _morning, dear- here’s your school bag_.

Thanks to all of them, business runs smoothly in the House.

The second floor houses most of the offices. The third is a conference area, for training and meetings with other families. The fourth is more of a residential flat- it’s where Credence’s room is. The fifth is where Picquery’s office is.

He’s been up to the President’s office. Once, when she had asked him about his birthday. _It’s up to you,_ she had said. _We don’t know. You tell me._

They had decided on September. The beginning of the school year, so none of his classmates would really know. Far enough before the holiday season that he wouldn’t have to worry about all of the other family celebrations.

When she had asked about age, he’d hesitated. He’s not sure why.

In the end, she had decided on fifteen. _Close enough,_ she’d said with a smile. _You can go to school, if only for three years. Long enough for you to decide what you want._

_What I want,_ he thinks, looking at his pale reflection in the mirror. _What do I want?_

* * *

School isn’t bad.

It’s fine. He does well enough, studying with other students- Picquery had arranged for his special situation.

_You’ll study every subject they do,_ she’d said. _With the exception of spells. Take your time,_ she had said, her smile a little tight. _There’s no rush._

He knows what she really means to say is, _you’re unstable_. And until he isn’t, she won’t let him have a wand.

“You always do well in potions,” Arthur tells him as they walk towards the front staircase.

“I study,” Credence replies mildly, although his words carry a smile.

It’s a joke, between him and his only two friends. They are understanding of his situation.

“Oh, yes, you _study_ ,” Bella says, joining them. “That must be so difficult when you have one fewer class than the rest of us.”

The jibe is softened by her smile, merry brown eyes disappearing as the wind whips at her red-brown hair.

“You’ll both have to study over the break,” Credence says. “if you need help-,”

“Oh. Credence,” Bella says, “you should have told us. Well, go on, and don’t forget to write!”

He is about to ask what she means but then he sees the car, matte black and low, lying by the curved driveway.

“Graves,” he breathes, a smile fighting its way onto his face.

He knows the man can’t hear him- he’s yards away- but he says the name anyways, enjoying the taste on his tongue. He walks faster to reach him, wishing he could pull the ground beneath his feet like a carpet.

Graves looks tired, but he’s smiling. There are lines around his eyes, softened by his gaze. Credence can hear murmurs around him, stares and whispers at the Auror in their midst, but he ignores them.

Graves chuckles when Credence hits him, clumsy, falling against the man’s chest.

“Credence. How’s my boy?”

He shivers a little, pleased. _My boy_.

“You’re back early,” Credence accuses, leaning away.

He takes a minute to drink Graves in, inspecting. The man is leaning against his car, dust and dirt still staining the edges of his greatcoat. There are a few conspicuously clean spots- _magic_ , Credence thinks- which means he’s been in a duel. A nasty one.

Graves notices his scrutiny and he raises an eyebrow.

“Are you _evaluating_ me?” he asks, amused.

Credence blushes, turning away, pretending to retrieve his bag from the sidewalk.

“You’re injured. And you haven’t bathed. Did you even go back to the House?”

Graves laughs, his hand brushing the back of Credence’s neck. It makes him shiver a little.

“Picquery’s already going to yell at me the length of the island, Credence. Don’t you start, too.”

* * *

Robert is predictably waiting on the steps.

“Darling, idiot Val. Did you _have_ to? I’ve been listening to her complaints all afternoon,” the man complains, but it is good-natured.

_He’d step in front of a bus for his friends,_ Credence thinks, _and doubly so for Graves._

“Sorry, Rob,” Graves smiles, feigning a contrite expression with little success.

“Oh, go on. Honestly, between you and Bert, I’m going to die before I’m forty.”

Credence laughs quietly to himself, shifting the bag on his shoulder.

“Come on, Cat,” Robert says, reaching for Credence’s elbow. “Andie made you a snack.”

It’s an old nickname. He remembers the first time Robert found him, terrified from a nightmare, hiding under Graves’ desk. He hadn’t known it was Graves’ at the time- he’d only liked the smell of pine and the way his blanket had fit perfectly in the space.

_Our little Cat,_ Robert had said fondly, Queenie close behind. _Come on. I’ll get you I’ll get you a pillow._

The kitchen is warm and it smells of cocoa.

“Hey, hon,” Andie says, smiling as she twirls around Queenie.

They work in symbiosis, always turning into each other’s empty spaces. They could be sisters, he thinks, but they’re really not- Tina is Queenie’s sister. _And they’re more different than alike sometimes._

“Thank you,” he says by way of greeting, accepting the golden biscuit Queenie offers him.

“I know,” Queenie sighs, answering his unspoken sentiment. “Mr. Graves is going to get it. But don’t worry. The President likes him.”

It’s reassuring, and like always, it helps him in a way he didn’t know he’d needed.

He makes his way upstairs with the plate and a mug of cocoa, slipping into his room. It is aptly named the Red Room; the bed is fitted with deep crimson sheets and the walls are so dark they are almost black. To anyone else, Credence thinks it would seem violent- to him, it is _life_. It is a living color, and it reminds him- times he loses himself- that he is alive.

_I am alive. But why?_

* * *

Bellbow is standing by the door.

His blond hair is pulled back from his face, an ever-present cord holding it at the base of his neck. The man leans easily into the wall, deceptively relaxed. He has a wand hidden in his sleeve, Credence knows, but it is invisible under the fabric.

“Credence,” the man nods, smiling.

“How was it?”

Bellbow pauses, glancing at the door behind him.

“…he should have come home first,” the man says simply.

“He’s bad at doing what he _should_ ,” Credence says, smile shaky. _I hope he’s not in too much trouble._

“No. Only sometimes,” Bellbow says, eyes twinkling.

Credence blushes but before he can answer, the door swings open and Graves emerges, pausing for a fraction of a second by Credence’s side.

He smells very green. Credence has always associated certain things with Graves- grey, black, pine trees and sweetened tea…

“Come in,” Picquery’s voice issues, and Credence tears himself away.

The office is very gold. The walls are black and smooth, thin gold paneling immaculately lining the ceiling and floor. The desk and furniture are black but the sheen of gold reflects off surfaces, making everything a little richer. In any other office, the colors would be gaudy. In Picquery’s office, it is the height of class.

“Madame President.”

“Credence,” she smiles, a little tired. “How was school?”

_Same question, different day._

“It went well. We have assignments over the break.”

“Good. Let someone know if you need help,” she reminds him.

It’s more of a formality than anything else. He’s never asked for help.

“…about-,” Credence starts, heart thumping, and he wants to say _it’s not his fault, he only wanted to help me._

“Credence. You know that I will be leaving soon,” Picquery says.

Firm. A little warning.

“…yes.”

“I’ll be representing MACUSA. Every witch and wizard in America. This is important.”

She speaks as if lecturing, and it makes Credence’s neck itch. He knows she means well, but sometimes he can’t stand the way she talks to him. Like he’s a child. Like he’s still shivering and crawling on the pavement.

“I know.”

She pauses, evaluating, and tries to loosen up. It is visibly difficult for her.

He thinks it must be hard for her, to wear the mask of President around the clock. He wonders if she truly _is_ this way- if there is not a different side to her.

“Well. The important thing now is your birthday. It’s coming up in a few months. It’s an important one,” she says, smiling.

She says that every time. As if he’s lucky to survive every year.

He guesses she’s probably right.

“Yes,” he agrees, making things easier. Falling into the routine. “It will be.”

* * *

Graves pauses outside the door.

He can hear Credence moving around inside, stopping suddenly, and he smiles when he thinks of the boy’s dark eyes landing on the shadow under the door.

“Credence,” he says, opening the door, tasting the name.

He thinks it’s a little self-indulgent, and maybe narcissistic, the way he enjoys it. He’s the one who named the boy, and it gives him a disgusting amount of pleasure to know Picquery had agreed. It fits, he thinks.

“Graves,” he smiles, pale fingers spread across a worn leather book.

He always looks as if he’s been interrupted in the middle of worrying about something. Or thinking. Knowing Credence, Graves suspects it’s perhaps both.

“Come on. Why so grim? No marks, see?”

He turns in a circle, holding his arms out, smiling when Credence flushes.

“…it’s not funny,” the boy tries, but he’s already softened up.

“No. Nothing is,” Graves teases, raising his eyebrows, and he moves closer.

Credence laughs, a puff of breath leaving his lungs, and he seems distracted.

_Dangerous,_ his mind tells him, but he ignores it.

“How long?” Credence asks, his hazy eyes sharpening a little.

“…a month.”

“Not long,” Credence says, the dismay heavy on his face before he tries to cover it.

It doesn’t quite work.

Graves carefully lifts his hand, reaching, and waits a beat before touching Credence’s arm. He always waits for permission- he knows how important it must be.

“Long enough.”

“I don’t care about my birthday,” Credence starts, a little heated, and then he checks himself.

He looks frustrated. And maybe sad.

“I don’t ever want to make you sad,” Graves tries, rubbing the boy’s arm.

“I know you don’t,” Credence sighs, shifting closer, and Graves is all too happy to hold him.

“I’ll be back before you know it. Don’t think about it. Focus on now.”

“Now,” Credence says, his smile audible. “Now, I think I’d like dinner.”

* * *

The days pass in a blur, and then it’s his birthday, and then Graves is gone again.

Again.

He should know by now. He should know better than to get attached, really, because Graves is arguably the busiest man in MACUSA. He’s always gone.

But something about the man had hooked him from the beginning and it’s too late to let go now.

“Come on,” Bellbow says one afternoon, practically hauling him outside. “Exercise.”

Normally, Graves is the only one who can touch Credence with impunity. Bellbow, however, is an exception. He, above all else, is _safe_. Credence would never second-guess the man.

“What? Bellbow-,”

“Oh, you’ll enjoy it,” the man grins. “Bertrand is back.”

“ _Bert_ rand!” Credence half-shouts, almost jumping out the back door.

Bertrand is probably the only member that rivals Graves in his absence. He’s usually still there, though- he’s just invisible. Always doing one dangerous thing or another.

When they get outside, Bertrand is trying to pry Robert off his shirt.

“-ah-,” Credence manages, blinking a little too fast, and his hands move as if to cover his face.

“Oh, Cat,” Robert smiles. “Fantastic. I’ve been trying to get Bert to duel with me. Now we can do pairs!”

Credence realizes a little late that Robert was trying to roll Bertrand’s sleeves up. _I swear,_ he thinks, _there’s something there. Even if their ‘compromising incidents’ have never truly been compromising._

“I don’t think I’ll last against Bellbow,” Credence tries, glancing at Bertrand.

The man looks vaguely fond- _thank you,_ his expression seems to say, _but we both know that won’t help._

And it doesn’t.

Two hours later, he’s following the trio back into the house, happy and sore from sparring with Bellbow. _Come, small boy,_ the man had boomed, grinning with brilliantly white teeth. _We will use your stature to your advantage._

It’s late at night, when he’s lying in bed with a mug empty of Queenie’s famous hot chocolate, that he realizes he hadn’t been brooding on the months until Graves returns all day.

He laughs, shaking his head at the ceiling, and thinks maybe that was the point.

And he’s grateful all over again for his family.

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely based on Lili St. Crow's book of the same name. Let me know if you came here from my 'With Religious Fervor' series!


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